A Moment's Peace
by Aussiegirl41
Summary: Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson's reaction to the end of the war brings them closer than either of them think is appropriate.


**I wrote this some time ago. (Before I finished watching season 2, obviously from one plot point.) I think everyone who is watching season 3 needs a little mindless smutting!**

Elsie Hughes was sitting on the settee, staring blankly into space when he walked into her parlour. He wasn't even sure she'd heard him knock.

"Mrs Hughes," he prompted, but she never looked up. Tears began to slowly trickle down her cheeks.

His pulse began to race. He wasn't sure his heart could take another hammering with bad news.

He turned and locked the parlour door. He knew she wouldn't want any of her maids to see her in this state.

"Mrs Hughes," he repeated her name. "What's happened?"

She looked up. "Mr Carson?" she asked, and then shook her head slightly, as if only just realising he was in the room.

He stooped down and gripped her hands.

"What is it?" he asked again, urgent.

"You haven't heard, Mr Carson?"

"No," he exhaled the word with a sigh and closed his eyes. He knew his own character's deficiencies. One was his resistance to change. He was happy in an ordered, structured life. He knew that things would change when Lord Grantham had read out that telegram. Unfortunately, he hadn't been proved incorrect.

He clenched his jaw, steeling himself for whatever new change Mrs Hughes was about to announce to him now.

"Mr Carson, it's over." Though he never opened his eyes, nor let go of her hands, he knew she had risen off the settee and was now standing directly in front of him. He could feel her warm breath across his cheek.

"The war," she added. "They've signed an armistice."

His eyes opened and he held her gaze; her words and their consequences slowly registering.

He let go his grip on her hands to run his thumb across her cheeks. "These are tears of joy?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Perhaps," she agreed, gripping his shoulders and sagging against his chest. "Intermingled with tears for those who didn't survive to hear such news."

His mind was a jumble of thoughts and feelings of what would happen to the country and the world next. But one thing he was sure about was that no one could move forward until the war was declared to be at an end.

"Is it really true?" he asked, never so grateful for a day as he was today.

She nodded. "It's over."

He grinned then. The largest, brightest grin he'd given in several years. He suddenly felt light-headed; giddy as a debutante during her first season.

"It's over!" he whooped. If there was a time one could let go and relax their standard of decorum, surely it was now.

"It's over!" she happily cheered back, her smile lighting up not only her face, but his heart at that exact moment. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to do to lean down and press his lips against hers for a kiss; a soft quick kiss between friends who had both received the best news.

She tasted of so many things. He wanted to close his eyes and kiss her again, just to see how many different flavours he could list. But he couldn't let her know how much a simple kiss could affect him, so he quickly continued with his celebration.

"It's over!" he cried again.

She giggled then, a most un-Mrs Hughes-like reaction. The sound only spurred him on more.

He lifted her up into his arms and twirled her around.

The grip on his shoulders tightened. "Put me down, Mr Carson!" she scolded, but he could hear the mirth in her tone.

After one last spin, he loosened his grip, intending to carefully lower her back to the floor. He hadn't thought through this action at all, however. Sliding down his body, he felt her ample feminine curves and the private part of his body that he prided himself with having so much control over reacted immediately.

He shuffled away from her once she was standing independently. She kept in contact with him, however, by resting her hands upon his chest. "Goodness, Mr Carson," she gasped, tilting her head back to smile up at him.

If only she hadn't smiled at him like that, he'd thought later. He couldn't resist that smiling mouth a moment more. He bent his head and kissed her again. His lips surrounded hers, tugged hers into his mouth, licked and suckled hers…Apple, mint, flour, more apple.

"Mr Carson," she breathed when he eventually released her.

He heard other shouts and laughter echoing through the house. Someone was running down the hallway. Both their glances darted to the door simultaneously, but they remained rooted to the spot, still so close that all either of them had to do was lean a few inches and they'd be touching again.

He turned back. She was watching him. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright.

He thought it was going to be him who yielded first and initiated more kisses, but he was wrong. Yet, it wasn't her either. As was often the case with them, they moved together.

His hands pressed against her buttocks, drawing her as close as he could get her, twisting his pelvis a little so she could feel how his body was reacting to her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and grabbed at his hair.

Frantic with need, his head dipped, she stood on tiptoes, and their mouths met again.

This time her lips parted instantly, allowing him complete access. His tongue explored her mouth greedily. His hands lifted her skirts and began to explore her legs with equal fervour. Her limbs felt like silk beneath his touch.

He let out a loud groan when her tongue flicked out, meeting and lacing with his experimentally.

His hands slid beneath the material of her underwear and his fingers bit into her bare skin, pressing her closer still.

This wasn't the proper behaviour of a butler.

Their mouths broke apart as they both gasped for air. He breathed heavily for a moment, and then decided that a long recovery period was unnecessary and latched onto her neck, nosing the material of her dress's collar out of the way so he could kiss and suckle down the elegant length that he'd been tempted by more than once during his time at Downton.

Suddenly, she was pushing at his shoulders instead of gripping them.

He hung his head resignedly and took a step back, his stomach lurching.

Her breathing hadn't yet recovered either and, from this angle, he could see she was wringing her hands. He wanted to comfort her; to draw her back into his arms, but his good manners overruled in this matter and he stood perfectly still, waiting.

"Mr Carson…" Her voice was shaky.

He slowly raised his head. She was biting down on her bottom lip and he felt another wave of arousal surge through his body at her apparent vulnerability. Was this his calm and unflappable Mrs Hughes?

Slowly, she reached up and slipped open the top button of her dress. Then, at an equally leisurely pace, she released the second. His breathing had all but stopped when, to his vexation, she took even longer to part the third button.

Next, she bent and with infinite patience and a now steady hand, she removed her shoes.

Singing rang out from the kitchen. Would one of the other servants come searching for them? Would one of the family call for them?

He thought fleetingly about the lock on the door. Would it hold if someone were to knock excitedly on it?

He forgot about the kitchen, the family, the possibility of discovery, and just stood and stared when she lay back on the settee, bunching her skirts until her underwear was exposed.

She undid another button on the bodice of her dress, and then her hand moved to undo one that secured the top of her knickers.

His mouth went dry. He didn't know where to look. His attention was torn between the faint swell of her bosom to the teasing potential of what was hidden beneath the other now unbuttoned item.

This wasn't the proper behaviour of a housekeeper.

With a groan he fell to his knees beside the settee, one hand pushing one bosom up and out of its confines so his mouth could latch onto its nipple, his other hand sweeping the underwear down and off her legs.

His mind didn't know which sensation to take in first: the way her nipple hardened beneath his tongue as he lapped at it eagerly; the way her thighs were quivering as he brushed his fingers through her dark curls; the way her eyelids fluttered across her cheeks; or the quiet noises of pleasure coming from her slightly parted mouth.

Yes, her mouth...He groaned against it as he captured it again. Every time she spoke, every time she ate, he wanted her to remember what it was like to have his mouth moving against hers. Every time she breathed…

Her hands snaked up, pushing off his coat and gripping his shoulders again.

They both froze when she tugged at his lapel, sending the pins holding his collar in place flying.

Finally she spoke, easing the tension. "I certainly hope we can find them later."

He chuckled and leaned his forehead against hers, helplessly trying to give their minds and bodies a moment to catch up to their desires.

"We're too old to be carrying on like this," she added.

"Yes."

She laughed. "You're supposed to tut and claim we aren't old when I say things like that, Mr Carson," she chided.

"Sorry," he mumbled, temporarily distracted by running his chin across the swell of her breasts. "I meant we are too old to be rushing things. At our age we should be taking it slow, savouring every sensation—," he manipulated the material of her bodice until each of her breasts filled his hands, "—learning what we like, what we want-," he rolled each nipple between a thumb and finger, "—what makes us beg for more-," he licked her skin, comparing the hardness of her nipple to the softness surrounding it.

"If you think I'll suddenly become the begging type, Mr Carson, you're sadly mistaken," she growled.

He leaned back and grinned down at her.

"That's better," he said. "If you become too agreeable in my arms, I shall wonder if am holding the right woman."

She sniffed angrily.

He chuckled, wondering how she could pretend to be so stern and poised whilst spread before him half naked.

"I always like a challenge," he murmured, almost to himself. He weighed up his options. He'd had other women before, when he was younger. He hadn't stayed with any of them long enough to do more than the basics. He'd heard stories. A lot of his cohorts in the music business had been particularly vocal with what they liked to do with their women.

He frowned. Elsie wasn't some floozy he'd picked up in a music hall. He wasn't here, kneeling beside her, ready to worship her, for his own pleasure. He remembered one thing a lot of the men had bragged about. He had always wondered…

He moved until his cheek was resting against her inner thigh, and just inhaled her heady scent.

Her fingers began to stroke his hair. "Charles?" His first name slipped from her lips like an endearment.

He experimentally edged closer until his nose was being tickled by the curls between her legs. He nudged forward, and lapped slowly through her parting.

She jerked beneath him, making him withdraw.

"Elsie?"

"Yes," she moaned, gripping his hair and positioning him between her legs once more.

He eagerly dipped back between her legs. This time there was no apple; there were no familiar flavours. But she was tangy and sweet and he wondered hysterically if he would lose weight because nothing was ever going to taste as good from now on.

He concentrated on her reactions. She writhed beneath him when he suckled harder just there…

"Charles!" she gasped. "Please…"

She was begging. Instead of being triumphant, he was in awe. He was causing Elsie Hughes to lose control.

Suddenly, he needed to be inside her.

He roughly pulled at his pants and underwear, desperate. He realised his shoes were still on, but he couldn't take the time to remove them. He had to feel her around his most sensitive part – now!

He positioned himself between her legs and pushed at her opening. Despite her readiness, she was still tight and he made a pathetic growling noise at the back of his throat when he was met with resistance.

Determinedly, he lifted up to alter the angle. Her hand was there, right there, touching his… His eyes blurred and he forgot where he was for a moment. Her hand was there…

Next, she was lifting her hips, her hand guiding him into the heat of her body.

Once there, he paused, letting them both get used to this new sensation. He could feel her, enveloping him with her wet warmth. Every nerve of his hardened length thrummed. His feelings…He was feeling too much. He needed to move, to spread the feelings through to the rest of his body.

He held himself up to slide in and out of her. Her pelvis lifted up from the settee and their bodies delectably met with each thrust.

He could feel her clenching around him, holding him inside her. He was losing all sense of where he was, what he was doing… His only urge was to go faster, to go harder, to feel every part of her that he could.

She was murmuring beneath him now, incoherent whispers that matched the incoherent screaming in his head. He refused to open his mouth. If he did, he knew he would roar so loud that the entire household would come running.

Instead, he wordlessly kept their tempo, ignoring the rush of blood that was swirling in his mind, wanting to prolong this feeling forever.

Suddenly, Elsie tensed beneath him, and then, she began to tremble. She threw her head back and he felt a rush of moisture gather where they were joined.

He stilled, watching as she kept quivering, her bottom lip once again held tightly between her teeth. She was so beautiful.

He wanted her.

He wanted to leave his mark on her.

He stroked along the inside of her again, slowly, then harder and harder and faster and faster. The tension inside him built. He wanted her. He wanted to be inside her. He wanted to leave his mark… He shuddered and let himself go.

He collapsed onto her chest, panting and shaking. He felt her fingers threading through his hair.

He lazily breathed a nipple into his mouth and suckled for a moment before he realised how heavy he must be.

He looked up to check her level of discomfort. He startled when he saw she was crying. Someone reached in and squeezed his heart. He'd hurt her.

"Elsie?" he rasped, panicked.

She lifted his hand up and dragged his fingers the wetness of her cheeks.

"These," she whispered, "these are tears of joy."

He felt his own eyes prickle with tears in response.

He was never so grateful for a day as he was today.

He was holding the right woman.

And he knew this would change everything.

But he didn't care.

This wasn't the proper behaviour of a butler.


End file.
